Keeper of Lordaeron
by Alexis Kent
Summary: Fight against everything the memories represent, and you will find the pain becomes more bearable.
1. Good Intentions

**Prologue: Light Wanes**

There is a sort of presupposition among the simple or innocent that thieves and murderers were always thieves and murderers, and that they steal and kill just for amusement. These, in their ignorance, forget that all were once young and, if only for the briefest time, unaware of the world's cruelties. But when such blissful naiveté fades and the cold hard facts of life sink in…is it then that the evil awakes within? Or do some cling to hope, fighting, fighting…but I am getting ahead of myself.

You, reader, listen to my tale. Listen and decide for yourself if I am to blame for who I am, or what I have done.

My tale begins when I was young, very young, too young to trouble myself with anything. I had food for my belly and clothes for my back, and people enough to pet me and tell me what a pretty child I was. I chased butterflies in summer and built grand snow-forts in winter, and through exploration received many bruises and black eyes as all adventurous boys do. In my small world there was nothing lacking.

But all sweet times come to a close, and all happiness must be stripped away. Sometimes it is all taken at once, other times it is taken away slowly, bit by bit, which is almost worse, like slowly and relentlessly picking at an old wound. Such it was with me.

Such stripping away began when I'd hear the men and women standing in the town square, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues, and talking in hushed whispers about a drought. I did not quite understand what it all meant, but had sense to know it meant something very serious. But to me? To my special little world? Danger could not come near it, I thought. The world could be falling into ruins and yet I was convinced I and my family would remain untouched.

But I discovered that it was not so.

Drought, I learned, meant no or little food on the table, and such queer achings in my belly that I had never felt before. In my childishness I thought only of myself and my misery, not noticing my mother or my father or my sisters wasting away before my very eyes. They showed the same affection and deference to me as always, sometimes even giving me their food when I cried. My mother did this the most and I did not find it strange that she did so.

It was my father who went first. I cannot say I fully believed it (or understood it); I had thought my family invincible, and my father was the very foundation on which my family was built. It was then that I began to know fear. Not the practical fears of one who is grown -- how food will be found or money will be acquired -- but a vague, mysterious fear. I was afraid but knew not of what. There was the threat of death, of course, but that was not foremost in my mind. No, it was the gnawing, twisting gear of the unknown, of the future.

If I was afraid of the future, I was rightly so. Though the drought ended and for most life went back to its usual way, my own world was not so easily mended. At the risk of sentimentality -- what use is sentiment? it only dulls the senses -- I will say that the hole left behind by my father's death remained a gaping wound in our day to day living. But that could be borne. It would be borne because it must.

I lose my patience with my babblings. Let me put the rest as simply as possible.

With no man remaining to be a breadwinner and provider, my mother assumed the role. Thus she was both mother and father to me; one moment kissing a bruise and the next working beside me in the field. But such would be taxing to anyone. If I were just a very little younger I would have failed to see the change that had come over her: the darkness under her eyes or the hollowness of her cheeks.

It was she who was taken next. All the townsfolk said she died of a broken heart; I know better. I have suffered what people call a broken heart. People do not die from such things. The cause of her death was purely physical. Exhaustion. Overwork.

Now that there was the issue of what was to be done with us -- my sisters and I -- there was once again a great deal of shakings of the head and cluckings of the tongue. But this time I knew what it meant. Though the people all claimed a great deal of pity, very little was done to evidence this. Words can not fill the belly and good intentions can not warm, thus winter found us in a sorry state.

Would you believe me, reader, if I were to tell you that I was the only one of my family alive to see spring? Upon my honor--or rather, my sword-- I swear it is so, though I know not why. I had not the goodness of heart to merit the favor of the gods, nor the cunning to grant me and edge in surviving.

But I would learn the latter soon enough.


	2. Vahal

A young boy of less than eight summers should not have to steal to survive. He should not know what it's like to lie awake night after night because it is too cold for sleep. He should not be able to recognize the looks of loathing directed his way, as though he is some detestable vermin or piece of refuse.

But I knew all these things. They quickly became of a painful familiarity, my constant companions. I was not so hardened at this time that I did not feel the accompanying shame, fear, and despair. But I was also old enough to not allow these emotions to keep me from doing what was necessary to survive.

I will not say that I was so very adept to begin with. Loud and clumsy, I would have been caught many a time, had the people of my small town not been so slow and simple-minded. After a time, though, they began to notice small things amiss: a lighter coinpurse, a cellar missing a cellar missing a few apples. And perhaps--though I cannot be certain--they began fitting things together in their minds So I left that place, and was glad of it. I was leaving behind my home and memories, and in a way, everything that remained of my former life.

I passed from town to town over a course of several years. These emotions that had plagued me--fear, loneliness, shame-- became dead and buried within. That is not to say they were replaced with feelings of peace, happiness, and worthiness. They were replaced by nothing. I had at last learned to deaden my senses.

In one particular village, there was a young woman by the name of Vahal. She was some years older than I, and a fledgeling priestess. It was the Light, I suppose, that inspired her to look upon me with pity. I felt this pity was genuine unlike that of everyone who had come before. She didn't seek to comfort through words alone--for what fool cares of Light and Peace and Harmony when he is starving and cold--but rather through material means. Oftentimes she would bring me food or even clothing; I can yet recall her face as she would solemnly say, "You understand, of course, that I cannot give you money. There is no way of knowing what it might be spent on, you see." As if a starving boy would care to have anything but food.

After a time, when my belly was filled and my mind less desperate, I began refusing the gifts. I told her that I would no longer accept the charity just to salve her conscience, or so she could receive special favor in the Church. She would say nothing to this, and daily the offerings continued. I can't say why this kindness bothered me, but it did, and I was resolved to stop it. So one day I informed her: "Vahal, I am a thief. I steal and lie."  
I had intended to shock her but her knowing smile told me I had not. She asked why I would tell her this, and I said it was because the church would not approve of her generosity to me and that she should stop. To my chagrin she gave me some nice-sounding answer about how the Light stretches to all, and she was to help all, and a good deal more that I didn't remember more than two minutes after she told me. There was something in her voice, however: conviction, one could call it. It stuck with me, and after that I would neither refuse the gifts or attempt to frighten her away.   
This brief time of relative ease and comparative happiness soon ended: Vahal was called back to the grand capital city of Lordaeron for further training or some such. While it is perhaps true that I felt her absence strongly, the...emotion did not last long, and I continued about my business. This business, of course, was necessary in order to live even while it could lead to my death.


	3. Confession

The sound of rattling keys awoke me from my slumber. The cell door opened slowly, groaning and creaking in protest from years of disuse. Slow, soft words drifted to me. "Prisoner, I have come to comfort you in your last hours alive."

I willed myself to look up, not so much out of courtesy to the speaker but rather curiosity as to why the voice sounded so familiar. Our eyes met and widened in mutual recognition. It was Vahal who stood before me, and Vahal who was to comfort and support me and my final hours.

In other circumstances it would have been laughable.

Her shock lasted longer than mine, as she stood staring opened-mouth for some moments. "Andreth!" she gasped. "I--I knew you were a pick-pocket and a pest, but…this? How?"

I smiled at the word "pest" but let it pass without comment. "Vahal, if ever you are hungry and desperate, don't steal from the wrong man or you will find yourself sitting in a cell having someone performing last rites over you."

"Then the incident at the Festival…that was you?"

"Ah, so word's gotten out then."

She smiled slightly. "Indeed. It's been the talk of taverns all across Lordaeron. People find it incredibly amusing that the famous Lord Othen was nearly bested by a common thief."

"Nearly being the key word. It was not enough, and here I am." I was beginning to sound sentimental and remorseful, and that I could not allow. "You were sent here to console me, were you not? Start doing your chants or rituals or whatever it is you priests do."

Her voice grew serene and distant. "Prisoner, I will now listen to your confession of wrongdoings before you depart this world."

"Gladly would I oblige, if I had anything to confess."

The serenity was gone, or at least in her eyes. They were glossy with forming tears. "I cannot believe one would be put to death for a petty theft!"

"It's simple to me, really. If what you say is true--that the people laugh over the matter--then one can safely assume that the Lord Othen would surely be angered over being made look a fool."

"…And as such, he is taking out his anger and embarrassment on you," Vahal, said, finishing my thoughts. She began to pace. "But I still cannot comprehend the cruelty of it!"

I did not need to hear again and again how unjust it was, for I understood it full well. Of what else had I been thinking during in the cold darkness? Settling back against the wall, I sighed, "Vahal, this sort of thing happens more often than you know."

A knock on the door cut short the conversation. The priestess began to move away.

"Vahal," I said to draw out her departure, "Thank you for your kind words, however useless they may be to me now."

She stopped and bowed her head. Then, hardly knowing why I said it, I added, "And if you ever should remember this scoundrel...spare a prayer for him."

These last words proved too much. The tears which had lain unshed now flowed, though she wiped them quickly away. She hastened to the door, gone in a moment, and I was alone in the darkness once more.


	4. Faultless

It was a cruel twist of fate that would have the prison riot happen that night, and crueler still that I would escape on the very eve of my execution. I had thought I was clever, slipping out in the confusion. But if only I had known the horrors that awaited me, I would have chained myself to the wall.

Now a fugitive, I fled into the woods, where nobody need ever be found if they do not wish it; where darkness obscures all deeds. And yet I was not the only one to seek refuge beneath the shady boughs. There were others, others who were wanted for misdeeds far greater than my own. Murderers, most of them; and yet they did not come near me. We in the forest were bound by an unspoken code of honor. Yes, honor amongst thieves and cutthroats.

But honor only goes so far.

The first time I took a man's life was entirely unavoidable. I remember his face, gaunt and haggard, glassy eyes wild with desperation. It was a mirror of my own. I say again it was not my fault. He had come to me in my sleep and tried to take my day's earnings: all I had to my name. When I moved he put a knife to my throat and hissed for me to be still. I had a dagger of my own, of course. And, having never been threatened with death before, I lashed out not knowing what else to do. The attack caught him off-guard and he fell, but there was still life in him. Those wild eyes stared at me unblinking, questioning and pleading. His face and those terrible, terrible eyes are seared into my mind forever.

Though you, reader, can see for yourself that I was faultless in the matter, I still felt some measure of guilt. Such intense guild when I remembered those eyes… But the foremost emotion was fear; fear at every waking moment. Surely this man had comrades; surely they would seek me out. And so I ran again, ever the fool. I saw danger in every shadow, an enemy in ever countenance. Ha! I could not see the real danger--no, the doom--that was drawing ever closer.

Strength fails me. I do not think I can finish…

Ah, but these final chapters of my life will doubtless just be an unimportant part of history some day in the future. I will be but one of many taken by the plague. The screams! The screams of the dying echo around me. Can I not be made deaf to these horrors?

Scores of foul creatures now roam our land. They are things of death, driven by some unknown will. Plague and undead! Are we to be given no respite?

At death's door I have made myself recount the own wretched, wretched tale of my life. I feel…regret, though I may fight it.

But now…I go to rest.


	5. Awakening

**Part I: The Darkness**

Another step. Another step. Fighting against the wind and snow, but for what? Where was he going? Had there ever been a destination? Had there ever been something worth fighting towards?

_Rytha smiled as her son bounded towards her in the grass. In his arms he carried a bunch of wildflowers, now crushed. He flung himself into her waiting arms and shoved the fragrant bouquet under her nose. "For you," he murmured, smiling shyly in anticipation of her reaction. Her heart filled, she lowered her head to plant a kiss atop his unkempt black hair. They sat there together, mother and son, and all was right._

Another step, another grueling step. He was aware of nothing but pain and a vague sense of anger. The wind tore at the rags he wore for clothes and the wind screamed in his ears. Another step, but for what?

_Andreth walked outside to see his father sitting on a log not five yards away, whittling away at a piece of wood. The boy scrambled up beside him to watch. "Can I try?" he asked, small hands outstretched. His father gently but firmly refused. Andreth made no complaint, but looked at his father with eyes so full of despair that instantly his father's resolve melted away and in a few moments he was guiding his son's hand on the knife. Together they sat there, father and son, and in that moment all was right._

Another step. He pressed on, alone, nameless…a bleak figure against the sheet of snow. Another step…suddenly voices began to invade his consciousness, voices from long ago. Some were loving, others angry, some tormented. Who were they? He was desperate, so desperate to know…

_Vahal quickened her pace upon seeing the dejected figure slouched against a building not far ahead. He sat with arms folded and countenance stormy, as though daring the world to despise him. Vahal knelt beside him and held out a loaf of bread, still hot. His dark gaze flicked to her, untrusting, even as he held out his hands to receive the gift. "It is good," murmured Vahal. "Try it."_

_He did so, and for the briefest of moments his eyes shone with tears._

Voices and faces from long ago pressed in all around him. In a flash, everything came back to him. Who he was, what he was…it was all so clear now. His name was Andreth, and he was supposed to be dead. How was it that he came to be wandering alone, here in the snow?

He was supposed to be dead.

A new thought dawned on him, so dreadful he could scarcely force himself to think on it. He raised a trembling hand -- and it confirmed his fear.

It was ashen, the skin mottled and half-decayed. He pulled back his sleeve to see that his arm was the same. And he was thin, so thin, as if all muscle had wasted away and left only the bone.

He was undead, just as the foul creatures who had roamed the land in the hours before his death.

"No," he whispered, his voice low and rasping. "No." Andreth fell to his knees in the snow, staring up in disbelief at the gray skies overhead.

Fate was not content with the suffering she had inflicted, but saw it fit that he should live again to suffer further. Andreth thrust his fist into the air, calling down curses on himself and whatever force had called him back from oblivion.

He was answered only by the mournful howl of the wind.


	6. Formerly of Lordaeron

There were many people in the Gallow's End that night. Some came because they wished to discuss The Situation, others because it was one of the more pleasant places in the area. It had not yet fallen into the state of festering disrepair that had become the norm; the innkeeper was always flitting about, dusting off a table or scrubbing the floors. She went about her business quietly, unnoticed by the gathering crowd.

Andreth went also unnoticed as he entered, for he was no more wretched a sight than any other person in the tavern. He moved slowly through the throng, all the while expecting someone to recognize him and throw him out. But they did not, for now they were as equals.

Shouldering his way to the fire, he stripped off his water-logged cloak and tossed it by his feet. "Hungry, sir?" asked the innkeeper, sidling up to him with a heavy-laden tray. "Here we have bread, cheese, mushrooms…"

She continued on her list after he shook his head. "Meat, fruit…" Her voice came out almost a whine, and her eyes pleaded with him to try something.

"I have no money," he said finally. Her face fell and she pulled the tray closer to her side. "Seems to be the story these days," said the woman, dabbing at her eyes with a dirty kerchief. "Times's not easy on any o' us, eh? But what'm I to do? I need business, is what."

Andreth grunted, unmoved and quite ready to be done with the conversation. The woman continued her dribble, stopping only to sniff loudly, until a voice cut in to say, "Ale, if you would be so kind, good lady."

The speaker was a man who had a lordly appearance, even in undeath. Standing straight and tall above the others, he was clothed in long robes that looked as though they had once been very grand. "Here," he said, handing Andreth the drink after it arrived. "Something to ward away the cold."

Andreth hunched over the mug, drinking slowly while watching the stranger over the rim.

"I am Vincent Hawthorne, formerly of Lordaeron," said the man in a conversational tone.

"Formerly?"

Vincent leaned back, clasping his hands beneath his chin. "…You are newly awoken, it seems. Lordaeron, you see, was destroyed by the Scourge."

Andreth rubbed his jaw, mumbling tonelessly, "The Scourge."

With great patience, Vincent related to him the entire sorry tale: the plagued grain that killed unnamed thousands only to bring them to life as the mindless Scourge, and finally the lady Sylvanas who awoke them again to their right minds. "We owe her a debt we cannot repay."

Tightening his grasp on the mug, Andreth said nothing for long moments. "But not all were killed by this…this plague?"

"Oh, a great many survived, to be sure. We are cursed in their eyes; they will attack us on sight without remorse or pity."

It then became apparent that a number of others had been listening in on the conversation. They crowded around Vincent, nodding at various points of his narrative, eager to be reminded of their plight. One of these, a burly fellow with matted hair hanging wildly about his face, growled, "After I came to, I went back home to find my wife. I didn't get the chance to see her; huge mob of people came screamin' at me, with swords an' pitchforks an' the whole lot!"

The innkeeper chimed, "Y'can bet yer life they recognized ya, jes' don't care. See's us as monsters, is what." She sniffed and scrubbed at a grimy windowpane with renewed vigor. "But jes' you see, the Dark Lady'll know what to do with them."

This was met with a murmur of agreement, as well as a shout of, "We'll give them something to fear!"

Angry voices continued all around, though Andreth could no longer discern the words. He edged closer to the fire, taking a long drought of the festering brew. It burned in his throat.

"This happens every night, you know." This came from Vincent. He waved his hands towards the others. "They repeat themselves, repeat the same stories. I believe it gives them comfort, somehow."

Andreth grit his teeth a moment before replying. "I always thought that dwelling on the past worsens the pain."

Vincent smiled slightly. "Ah, not when the memories give you something to fight against. You fight against everything the memories represent, and you will find the pain becomes more bearable."


	7. Fate's Mischief

Lordaeron had indeed been destroyed, but as Andreth soon learned, a new realm had been formed in its wake. The Dark Lady herself had made it her residence, calling it simply the Undercity. Nestled beneath the crumbling ruins of Lordaeron, those living there were every day reminded of what had been Before. The inhabitants of Brill seemed merry next to these. There was no smile seen or gentle word spoken; experiments and tortures (quite often the same thing) were performed in the open for all to see, always to the approval of the crowds. The city was a pit of depravity and despair, and yet its people seemed to revel in it.

And yet these had once been husbands and wives and children and neighbors. Andreth did not fancy himself an idealist, but the change sickened him. As soon as morbid curiosity had been satisfied, he nearly ran through the crumbled, labyrinthine corridors out into the relative fresh air of Tirisfal.

* * *

The forest was lonely, as all forests must be. There was no noise save for the scurry of a rat or squirrel seeking refuge in the shadows. The single stream that wove between the trees, muddy and choked with dead leaves, was noiseless as it moved ever forward in its lonely trek. A few brave rays of moonlight broke through the thick foliage overhead, casting soft pools of light on the carpeted forest floor.

But the forest was not as empty as it seemed, for there was to be seen a lone woman who moved among the trees with the same dogged sense of purpose as one of the small animals fleeing to shelter. And yet, however marked her purpose, she found herself passing by the same rock or tree time and time again. She stopped, clasping her hands no her chest and staring up at the moon overhead. She made a rather ghostly sight, standing there bathed in soft moonlight, her slender frame encompassed by soiled white robes. Wide eyes, sunken back into her hollow face, continued to stare hungrily at that sole source of light and comfort.

A dark cloud passed over the moon, and the woman was again left in darkness. The forest around her seemed colder and somehow more sinister than ever.

A rustling sound came from behind her. It was so faint that she would not have heard it normally, but to her senses, heightened by fear and despair, it was as loud as a crack of thunder. She turned, forcing herself to move slowly and not bolt in the opposite direction. A pair of faintly glowing eyes locked on her, and a moment later the owner of these eyes stepped forward. It was a man, or at least it had once been a man. Long, limp locks of dark hair fell about his gaunt face, giving him a wild, haggard look. And yet, as repulsive and frightening as his appearance was, he did not look altogether dangerous. Her gaze traveled over faded leather armor hanging loosely on his thin frame, down to the rusted daggers by his side. _Those _looked dangerous.

The man made no move, but simply stood, slightly hunched, staring at her with some measure of disinterest.

"I am headed to Brill," she whispered. Her voice was foreign to her ears, being rough from disuse. "But I have lost my way, you see."

He seemed surprised that she should speak. "Yes, you have indeed lost your way," he said without inflection.

"Perhaps…perhaps you could be so kind as to point me towards the right way?" It was a foolish question, she felt, for he could easily lie to her and take her to his dark lair and kill her! Upon further reflection, however, she realized that if he cared to kill her, he could certainly do so now and nobody would ever know. A chill ran up her spine, but her smile remained pasted on her face.

"South."

She blinked, pausing a moment before asking, "And south is…?"

The faintest of smiles touched his cracked lips, making him look more human and somehow…familiar. He pointed behind her with a long, skeletal finger. "There. Take care to follow the road."

"Of course. Thank you," she murmured, turning to leave though her gaze was unable to leave his face. It was the eyes…disaffected, defensive…yet somehow gentle.

He straightened, folding his arms. "It may interest you to know that you look just as bad as I do."

"I didn't mean to stare," she said, ducking her head. "It's just that, you see, you remind me of someone."

"You spend a lot of time with corpses?"

Silence fell between them, as heavy as the fog that was now creeping over the land. Nighttime was fast approaching, frightening away the last traces of light. The woman looked up once more at the stranger, no longer concerned with offending. His features were by now nearly impossible to discern, thus her study was most unrewarding.

"Don't tell me you've gotten lost again just by standing here," he muttered at length.

"No. No, not at all." She drew her cowl over her head and gathered up her robes about her. "Allow me to reward you for your kindness; I haven't much, but I think that--"

"Unnecessary."

Withdrawing a few silver coins, she inched forward, holding her breath as she extended her hand. "I insist."

"And I refuse. Your charity is unwished for."

With those few words, everything was made clear. She had heard them before, so long ago, from a boy who would sooner die of cold and neglect than receive kindness…from a man who had been sentenced to death so many years ago. "Andreth," she gasped. "Andreth!"

His countenance changed from shock to confusion and vulnerability in a moment. It vanished as he stepped forward to lightly grab her chin and tilt her face towards his. He studied her intently, then released her and stepped back. "Vahal," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You deserved a kinder fate."


	8. The Deathstalkers

There were many things they could have asked each other. So many years to account for, so many questions that begged to be asked. And yet, they asked nothing. Perhaps the ravages of the Plague had erased all memory of what had been before, or perhaps neither were ready to bare to each other the sorry details of the past.

And so they walked side by side along the dreary little path, the only sound being the crunch of dead leaves beneath their feet. By and by the area grew more pleasant--or at least, less dark. Andreth tilted his head slightly towards Vahal, studying her face out of the corner of his eye. She bore herself with the same dignity as she had so many years ago, though now it seemed ill-fitting. Her robes were in tatters, hanging awkwardly on her painfully small frame, her face was pale and her eyes glowed with an unearthly light. Hoping to keep his expression casual and disinterested, he turned away, though the tightening of his jaw belied some of his revulsion.

"It isn't far now to Brill." His words came out so suddenly that both of them jumped.

"Oh," she said quietly, with an unmistakable note of sadness in her voice.

"That's where you wanted to go, isn't it?"

She stiffened. "That's where I was headed, not necessarily where I wanted to go."

Andreth quirked a brow and turned to her expectantly.

Vahal plucked at the frayed hem of her sleeve, stammering a few moments before saying, "It's so close to the city. Lordaeron, I mean. Or at least, it used to be Lordaeron… that is, I'm not looking forward to seeing it again."

The image of an abomination entered Andreth's mind, as well as others equally as appalling--all of which ambling about in the ruins of Lordaeron. "It will not be like you remember it," he said in quiet agreement.

"I'm afraid it will be too much like I remember it." Vahal continued plucking at the sleeve, tugging relentlessly at a grayish-white thread that held steadfastly to its place. "I was there at the End. When Arthas came, you know. And so, I'm afraid it will be everything I remember, only a thousand times worse."

They had passed into dangerous territory: past happenings, which both of them had been so diligently hiding from one another. The wall had been breached, and Andreth felt compelled to venture further. "Was that when you…when you, eh…died?" he asked, stumbling on the last word.

Her nod went unseen by him, and instantly he regretted having taken such a liberty. He wouldn't have wanted her to ask him such a question, would he? Andreth arched his back, rolling his shoulders til he heard a satisfying pop. He looked ahead to see the thinning of trees not five hundred paces from where they now stood. Beyond that, he knew, was Brill.

* * *

Vincent stared blankly at the book resting on his knees, idly fingering the edge of one of its rough pages. It was quiet in the Gallow's End, for once. A few bedraggled figures hunched over mugs of ale and said precious little, the innkeeper scrubbed patiently at the floorboards, and the small trickle of rain from the leaky ceiling landed with a soft _plunk _in a rusted pan. A small corner of the page crumbled off in Vincent's hands, and he tossed it aside with mild irritation.

The broad oak door of the tavern opened slowly, hinges screaming in protest. A gust of icy wind blew in, causing a few choice curses to be hurled at the two who came with it. Vincent nodded in their direction, tugging his robe tighter about himself as he returned his attention to the tome on his lap.

"Back again, are you?" came the whining voice of the innkeeper. "You can't just sit around here and not buy anything', y'know. Not real polite, is what."

This was addressed to one of the newcomers, it seemed. Vincent raised his head to see Andreth, the surly man who he had met in this very place, and a young woman trailing behind him. Smiling warmly, he rose and crossed over to them. "Good evening," he said with a sweeping bow.

The woman offered a shy smile. There was an expectant pause, then Andreth nodded, pointing to the man opposite of him. "Vincent Hawthorne," he said, then, gesturing to the woman, "Vahal."

Vahal extended a hand. "An honor to meet you, Master Hawthorne."

"Quite the same to you, Vahal, though I must ask that you don't stand on formality," said Vincent, gently shaking the proffered hand. He motioned to some chairs situated in a cozy corner of the room. "Allow me to buy the two of you something to eat."

Andreth shook his head, taking a small step back. "I was only taking her here, and now I must go."

"I won't hear of it. Come, sit, if only for a while." After seeing that Andreth obliged (however grudgingly), Vincent disappeared to go speak with the proprietress.

Vahal lowered herself into one of the rickety chairs, grateful for its support. "It was most kind of you to see that I reach the city safely," she said cautiously.

"It is nothing."

Silence settled over them. Andreth folded his arms as he leaned back in his chair and stuck his feet on the wobbly table in front of him. His muddy boots were soon resting atop a small pool of brown sludge, though Andreth did not seem to mind. Vahal sat quite still where she was, only moving to occasionally brush a wet, ragged lock of hair out of her eyes.

With a loud creak, the tavern door flew back, slamming into the wall and causing cracked windowpanes to tremble in their place. The man who entered could not have risen over five feet above the ground, but he walked with such confidence that he seemed to tower over those around him. Two others followed at a distance, faces shrouded in black cloth. Together the three approached the innkeeper, who did not hide her fascination--or apprehension-- as she spoke with them.

Vincent dipped his head to the men as he returned to Andreth and Vahal, carrying a heavily-laden tray. He hesitated at the table, staring pointedly at Andreth's mud-spattered boots until the owner grudgingly set his feet back on the ground. "You really ought not to do that," said Vincent cheerily as he set the tray on the table. He nodded towards the innkeeper, still engaged in quiet conversation with the men. "Renee will have your head."

Shrugging, Andreth reached for a dry hunk of bread and tore off a moldy piece. Tossing it over his shoulder, he jerked his head towards the newcomers. "Who are they?"

"Deathstalkers," said Vincent simply.

A frown flitted across Vahal's features. She plucked at the frayed edge of her sleeve, hesitating a moment before murmuring, "And what are the Deathstalkers?"

Vincent seemed briefly surprised by the question. "Ah, of course. You, too, are recently awoken?" After her nod, he set his hands flat on the arms of the chair, looking very much like a lord on his throne. "The Dark Lady's elite; pledged in service to her will. They are very much a driving force of the Forsaken."

"So they are not…" Vahal looked from side to side before whispering, "_Evil_?"

"Evil! No, certainly not," replied Vincent with a quick cough of a laugh. "Forgive me; I do not laugh at your expense. But no, they are not evil. However, they do strive for a certain…image, if you would."

"They seem to be well-respected," said Andreth in a low voice, fingers curling into the yet-uneaten hunk of bread.

Vincent nodded, and seemed to be done with the discussion. The three Deathstalkers turned from Renee and filed noiselessly out of the inn.

Minutes passed by languidly, seeming in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Andreth, on the other hand, perched on the edge of his seat, looking decidedly ill at ease. The bread in his hands was now little more than crumbs. His foot tapped on the floor with a _thump, thump, thump_, sending dried globs of mud to the ground with each.

At length, he rose and arched his shoulders back. "I must be going," he muttered. "Vincent, Vahal. Goodbye."

With that, he was off.


End file.
